Grief of a Dead Man
by TheOneWithTheMissingTeeth
Summary: How the three remaining Dead Men cope with the deaths of their comrades. A fic inspired by the Golden God's overly generous portion of misery which he never fails to include in his writing.
1. Dexter Vex

**AN: I had this idea after crying buckets for Ghastly and Shudder's deaths. I think I might still shed a tear or two every now and again. All thanks to Derek, and the black hole where his compassion should be. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to emotionally prepare myself for the final book.**

**The Grief of Dexter Vex . . .**

Dexter Vex had been on many adventures in his life time, many more than the average sorcerer. He'd dared to venture into unforgiving enviroments, battled countless magical monsters and enemies and found himself spitting in the ugly face of death more times than he'd like to admit. Now, as he sits on the edge of the mattress, finally releasing a sigh as heavy as all the burdens on his soul, he has never felt more defeated. He'd lived a life of remarkable bravery and peril and exploration for the past hundreds of years, truly comparable to no other. Even as he peels his jacket off and pulls the shirt over his head, all the scars on his body are reminders of each adventure he'd wondered off on and of each time he almost didn't come home. He'd fought in the war all those years ago and celebrated when it had been won. As one would assume, that kind of life is paid with great experience and power and wisdom. But he doesn't feel wise and he did not feel powerful. He feels tired and feels like a fool.

Vex had seen many people gasp their last breath and choke out their last words. Some of them had been his enemies and some of them had been his comrades. Some of them had been innocent mortals who'd had no business having their lives snuffed out in conflicts that nothing to do with them. He would mourn them when the fighting was done and them enemy had fallen; he remembered the times they had been comrades, on and off the battlefield. He remembered those who'd had families; wives and husbands, children and parents, brothers and sisters. He mourned for them. And then when the mourning was over, he'd move on and fight the next fight that needed to be fought.

As he looked up now and out the window, he felt more defeated than he'd ever felt in his entire life. He'd never felt emptier either. Yes, he'd lived a long life and had his fair share of pain and sorrow and grief but never anything like what he feels at this moment. His body and mind are bruised and battered and he wonders if they might ever be mended. As for his spirit, though, it felt as though it had been damaged beyond repair. Shattered.

After all, three of his closest friends died all in one moment.

He'd watched as Anton Shudder's head had been taken from his shoulders. He'd witnessed as a blade pierced through Ghastly Bespoke's back. He looked on as Erskine Ravel became a treacherous murderer.

Though he still had air in his lungs and blood in his veins, Ravel was dead. He had died when Shudder's heart stopped beating, when betrayal flickered into Ghastly's eyes and was replaced by lifelessness just a second later. When he'd plunged that blade into Ghastly's flesh, he had murdered himself. That is the only was Vex sees it in his head. There is no longer an Erskine Ravel. The man who now wore the robes of the Irish Grand Mage is not the man he knew. From now on, that is how it will always be. Three bother's dead with one treacherous jab of a knife.

As he lies back on the mattress and stares up at the grey ceiling, Vex allowed himself one last moment to mourn the brotherhood that used to be the Dead Men. And when that moment was done, he pulled on a clean shirt and his jacket (a small reminder of Ghastly itself) and did what he always did. There is a war raging outside, so he goes on to fight the next fight that needed to be fought. This time however, he fights for the honour of his two fallen brothers and the fantasy of the brother he'd thought he'd had.


	2. Saracen Rue

**AN: And now, the thoughts of Saracen Rue after Ravel's betrayal. The whole thing still makes my eyes water.**

**The Grief of Saracen Rue . . .**

Saracen Rue is known for many things. He is known to be one of the famous Dead Men: a team of seven men who ran head-first into suicide missions during the war with Melovent and were debated to be either brave, stupid or both. Saracen was known as well for his sense of humour. At the brink of death, in the hands of the enemy, in the heat of battle, Saracen had tendency to crack a joke at some of the most inapproprite and unfortunate times. Of course, sometimes, depending on the situation, people didn't laugh at his random and mostly dry one-liners. But that never bothered him. For the most part, the jokes were to lift his own spirit in times of hopelessness, to remind him that life can still be good at it's lowest point if you try to make it so. He'd like to think that was why he made it out alive all those times, that all those chuckles were the reason he didn't give up until he was in the clear. Laughter was his safety blanket, his essential survival item.

Saracen was also known for his mysterious talent for knowing random yet useful things. And along with that handy little skill, he is known for his obnoxiously persistent refusal to tell anyone what exactly he didn how his skills worked. Many a time has he been asked by curious Mage eyes wide with wonder and awe, "Saracen, what exactly is your power?" And each and everytime, admittedly feeling overwhelmingly yet satisfyingly smug, his only answer would be, "I know things."

So he should have known.

He'd had to take a moment on his own, a moment to deal with the weight of what had just happened. He's not sure, he can hardly remember what crying feels like, but he thinks a few tears are trying to slip free. What did it matter, he agonised. What did it matter to know things if the things you know don't save your friends? It had been sitting there for years and years. Since the war, Ravel had been planning it and he didn't "_know it._" He may not have planned to murder Ghastly and Shudder but he did and Saracen could have saved them if he'd just known the right things.

Standing on a balcony, looking over the empty streets with dark shadows clinging to the corners and alleyways. He wouldn't consider himself a dark person but behind the almost crippling despair, Saracen feels hatred. Deep and and dark and burning in the middle of his chest. It burns and flames and it hurts. He doesn't know that he could that way about someone who was once a man he trusted with his life. A part of him, a very naive part of him, wonders if this is how always Skulduggery feels with all that rage in him. The wiser part of him, the part that has known Skulduggery for years and has fought beside him, that part of him knows for a fact that what he is feeling now could hardly be compared to the infamous rage of the Skeleton Detective. What he is feeling is still child'splay.

With a deep breath of sour, war-soiled air, Saracen pulled himself together. Right now, Skulduggery and Dexter would be going over the next move. He needed to be there, with what remained of his friends, and avenge those who had fallen.

Erskine Ravel was going to pay dearly for what he'd done to Ghastly and Shudder. That was a definite.

Saracen knows these things.


End file.
